


The Matheson Militia

by littlecloud



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Gen, Militia, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlecloud/pseuds/littlecloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Charlie’s biggest concern was about being caught – being recognized as a Matheson, the General’s niece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Matheson Militia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gizzi1213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gizzi1213/gifts).



In the beginning, Charlie’s biggest concern was about being caught – being recognized as a Matheson, the General’s niece. She was pretty sure that the soldiers who killed off her father and brother were not aware of their identities. It was a matter of drafting; they lived cozily together as a family, right in the heart of Monroe Republic territory, where any able-bodied person of age could be recruited into the militia. When Danny resisted, both his father and his father’s new wife became involved, and that was that. Charlie had been out exploring, hunting for the day’s kill, unable to know her family’s danger until the gunshots already rang.   
  
The jog back home felt like a marathon, her pumping her legs and arms and begging the autumn air to give her some air. And she was fast, but she was too late.   
  
They could have her, the militia. Someone had to; she was an orphan now, her only trace of family running the Republic as his own. The name rolled again and again in her mind, a wave of syllables substituting what would be a wave of grief. General Miles Matheson, Uncle Miles, what could she call him. Her parents, what little she remembered of her mother, rarely spoke of her father’s brother. Charlie met him a couple of times as a child, though they were not notable family gatherings. But certainly he would have to care about the death of his brother, even if it was a result of his men’s doings.   
  
She went through the motions of everything, and, soon after, she became a soldier. On her wrist was the brand of both her family and foes – who shared her blood, but had spilled it, too. The letter M was a constant reminder of what she had lost, which seemed to be herself in conjunction with her life as she knew it before. For the first few weeks, the brand seemed to have its own pulse, beating when she lay down to sleep at night and aching during battle.   
  
Their caravan, a hefty group of fifty or more trainees, wasted no time reaching its station. Philadelphia was to be Charlie’s new home, the hub of the Republic. Doubtless, it was where Uncle Miles would be, alongside his partner, the president, Sebastian Monroe. 

 

* * *

  
  
The first time they met, as adults, Charlie knew who he was before he had time to introduce himself. Something about him looked so much like a Matheson – the dark hair, just like her father’s, or the faded ring of stubble around his lips. His posture, too, slouched in comparison to the rigidity of Monroe, who was fair-haired in contrast to his piercing blue eyes.   
  
He walked along the line of fresh soldiers, learning the names of each one. This was uncommon, Charlie gathered from the chatter around her, but necessary since they were in such close quarters to the leading men themselves. Some said it was out of Monroe’s paranoia, others believed Miles Matheson, the Butcher of Baltimore, wanted to scare sense into everyone. Show them who is in charge – which seemed plausible, considering the uncensored outline of a sword at his hip. That is how he differed from Ben, his brother; his demeanor being nearly as ruthless as his blade.  
  
As he stepped closer and closer to her, Charlie felt a bubble of something in her stomach, almost like a reverse urge to vomit. After losing so much in the past month, it felt strange to take in the image of a family member again.   
  
“And who are you?” The booming voice took Charlie from her thoughts, and she did not know if her cheeks went red or lost all color.  
  
“I am…Charlie,” she began, eyes meeting his, noticing their dissatisfaction. “Uh…Charlie McGee.” She recycled the name from a book she read years ago, Firestarter, that was apparently quite popular before the Blackout.  It was easy to keep the first name, with her surname haunting her all the time, and she was less susceptible to screw-ups that way.   
  
General Matheson gave a spit of a laugh, almost sarcastic. “Charlene, then? I prefer The Stand, but I guess you can’t go too wrong with any of King’s work. Just don’t set me on fire when I’m not looking.”   
  
She laughed nervously, digging her feet into the soil for support, and nodded. She could pretend he hadn’t caught her in a lie.   
  
“Yes, my name is Charlene. But I go by Charlie.”   
  
“Okay, Charlie,” he agreed. “Well, I’m Miles. Don’t cause any trouble, and we’ll be fine. The Monroe Militia’s happy to have you on our side.”  
  
“Glad to be here, sir.”   
  
It was a simple encounter, not anything special even compared to her introduction to Sebastian Monroe. He, the President, appeared to be a man of few words and lots of body language. When they shook hands, he smiled in a way that was so big it looked painful. Wrinkles dug hard cracks in the angles of his lips. Females swooned after him – the conduit of a thousand deaths. A girl next to Charlie whispered about how she hoped to be invited to his room one day, that women were something the leaders loved to indulge in. That’s why they often chose the prettiest kids to be stationed close to home; Charlie should feel lucky to be included in the group.   
  


* * *

  
  
Charlie had only a few months of training when she received a letter in her quarters, old-fashioned in text and envelope. On the front was the Militia seal. She could guess what was inside, but hesitated to open it for a couple of hours. Her roommates were getting restless; they had been there for the delivery, said that a guard laid the note directly on Charlie’s pillow and ordered them to have her read it as soon as possible.   
  
She was to be one of Monroe’s girls. The announcement was made in poem form, bizarrely enough, and detailed the strawberry blonde twinge in her hair or how her irises matched the waters he knew in the Marines. As if the circumstances could be romantic.  
  
A couple of other women had the honor, at least that she had heard of. Miles, however, seemed to be more discreet about his lovers – if any were chosen among the soldiers at all.   
  
The house was much more comfortable than her barracks right off of base. She had a mattress instead of a metal slab, and was able to eat meat instead of seared fat. Charlie made friends with a couple of workers, one who had the duty to keep her looking pretty. There was understanding between her and Monroe; Charlie could work during the day, be bloodied up, as long as she obeyed him in the evenings. Her skill was what attracted her to him in the first place. The Republic was always watching.  
  
There were bloody noses, blackened eyes, cuts on shoulders and knees, ripped out hair. Julia, the wife to a certain man called Neville who was in high command, kept Charlie’s spirits up. She taught her how to appear poised without losing the fire in her heart, and how to be beautiful without needing to be submissive.   
  
They would gossip for fun – a task that Charlie believed to be beneath her back home, before her father and brother were killed. And she hoped they would not be ashamed of her, accepting her position in the Militia, because everyone needed family. Miles was her family. It was her justification, her reason to be there, talking with Julia, mingling with Monroe. She could watch her uncle walk down the hallway, and could hear him commanding soldiers out in the field.   
  
Monroe had him call her Sebastian, and he held onto her formal first name – Charlene, for all purposes. Many of their nights were simply spent braiding each other’s hair together. She realized that he was just as lonely as her, liking to sometimes hum against her thighs rather than slide between them.   
  
“Are you and General Matheson friends?” she asked, courageously, one night. Her fingers raked at the fur on his arms.  
  
Looking up at her, distracted, Sebastian mumbled, “Huh? What does that mean. You want me to share you with Miles.”   
  
“Oh!” Charlie jumped, her head not able to shake no fast enough. “No, no sir. I just didn’t know if you were friends. That’s all. I have only spoken to him once, and he didn’t seem to be nearly as pleasant as you, Sebastian.”   
  
The fluttering eyelashes, palms warming against his body, had to make up for it. Remind him that he’s more attractive. He’s the one she wants. She had seen how impulsive Sebastian could be, and how many of her comrades had died directly by his hands. His ego was as gentle as his touch.   
  
“Miles is nice, yeah. Thinks differently than you or me. He’s, uh, big into sacrifice and thinks he’s really funny. But he’s nice.”  
  
And that started Charlie’s habit. She began to ask around, to anyone she met who seemed the least bit trustworthy, what General Miles Matheson was like. Most everywhere, she received the same answers – that he had a dry sense of humor, could be brutal in battle, or tidbits of the story of him and Monroe developing the Republic together.  
  
But there was something only Julia seemed to know. Charlie being one of Monroe’s girls gave her a special advantage, she could see who did what during the day and slowly understood the dynamics in leadership of the Monroe Republic. Julia told her most of these things, and Julia knew what Miles Matheson liked and where Miles Matheson spent most of his time and where Miles Matheson had come from.  
  
That included who Miles Matheson liked to sleep with – a woman that Julia called ‘Rachel.’ She had apparently been with him for years, though she slept in an area of the mansion that was not for those who lived there voluntarily, and that they knew each other before the Blackout.    
  
Were friends, family, or something. “They share the same last name,” Julia disclosed, “but neither wears a wedding ring. It is all very secretive. I don’t think anyone even realizes that she exists except for a couple people. I know President Monroe is in on it, that is how my husband found out. It’s best if you keep this between us, of course.”  
  
She promised that she would, and it wasn’t a lie. She would not contact anyone who did not already know about Rachel – about her mom.   
  
Small instances happened throughout her childhood, pieces of a puzzle she never could solve. So tiny she did not realize there was anything to figure out. There were family secrets, even if words did not exist for them; most of all, it was a shift in mood, even one a kid could catch, whenever anyone out of their immediate family was concerned. Charlie could not remember but a couple visits and phone calls from either side of the family, including her grandparents and uncles. One was the night of the Blackout. While the lights simmered, then escaped for good, her father was on the phone with Miles – she could remember. He was traveling with a military friend of his, presumably near their base in one of the Carolinas. It was the last time they spoke, at least to her knowledge.   
  
However, the name resurfaced after the Republic was formed. “Matheson” was not the most common of surnames, and “Miles” was an even more unique first. No one ever spoke to Charlie about her uncle’s presence in the militia, all the horrible things he was eventually rumored to have done, but she just knew somehow – knew that when her parents fought in their locked bedroom, voices hush, it was about him. She grew up quietly believing that Miles Matheson was the most powerful man alive. He influenced his family even from states away, and travelers delivered reports of his authority in other places.   
  
While the death toll rose, Ben and Rachel made it a point to think about it less. They cultivated a garden in an old bug-faced car, showed Charlie how to hunt, and used the crops and meat for dinners. The effort and time spent doing so was significant – a good distraction from reality.   
  
Charlie was young, she was easily amused; she thought of the Blackout as a video game, something she had to complete harder and harder levels of to finally beat. Before Rachel left, she thought it was fun.  
  
That day in the forest, when her mom did go, everything in the foregoing years of darkness had led up to it. The lessons in cooking, cleaning, nurturing her sickly little brother, and the secretive arguments between her parents, and how she could not eat ice cream anymore because it all had melted, and Miles Matheson’s name being repeated through acquaintances but not through her parents anymore – never “Uncle Miles.”   
  
She hated her mom for a while afterward, believing that Rachel had been preparing her to be alone ever since the lights went out. Her job was to become a parent to Danny – a provider, stronger than any soldier just to protect him from them. It was the last thing her mother said before she walked away, a composed goodbye and instruction to take care of her brother. There was no mention of who would take care of Charlie. Of course, Ben was there, and Ben was her father, but if she were to be Danny’s new mom, it would only be fair that she have one, too.   
  
Then, Charlie mourned. More and more people were dying, even those in her fairly sheltered village. She overheard conversations between her neighbors about how no one on their own, especially in a wood teeming with militia staff, could survive out there. Practical concerns, such as a lack of clean water, food, or shelter, seemed silly compared to the gunshots and arrows some of the passersby received. With guilt, Charlie imagined her mom finding a hamlet like theirs with doctors to tend to her wounds until her last breath, rather than perishing in a secluded field – all skin and dried bones. It was more heroic, and felt less like she left for a lost cause.   
  
But rationally, it did not matter why Rachel went away. She just did. As she became a teenager, less stable in emotions, Charlie convinced herself that it did not matter if her mother died either. Both ways, she would still be gone.  
  
It did not register at first; she had nearly forgotten her mother’s name, and her appearance was reduced to a lean, blonde silhouette. And there was still the chance that another Rachel Matheson existed – a cousin maybe, a niece. Charlie’s mom had died, she believed it for years, her father told her it likely had happened, her friends agreed. If was she somewhere still, had not disappeared into the shadows of a dried meadow, it could not be that her uncle had kept it from them. From his brother.   
  
The accusation – she could not accept it as fact – that Rachel would sleep with Miles, Charlie refused to process it.   
  


* * *

  
  
Monroe’s tongue swam across her back, curling around gaps in her spine like they were sockets for him to fill. The weather was particularly harsh that day, hot enough to scald exposed skin; his mouth was to be a cool compress. It was the closest thing to air conditioning that Charlie could remember – body conditioning.   
  
He said that she had bulked up, gained muscle, since she was recruited. She was always more athletic than her friends back home, but it seemed that, right after her family died, she had wilted. To have returned to her former glory felt good.   
  
Freckles had appeared in the dip between her hipbones. Monroe liked them.   
  
He told her a story of a girl he once knew that he met through Miles, and how her skin stayed fair even in the summertime, when she became a cloud of ginger spots. Even her hair brightened under the sun.   
  
He said many things like that, mostly that Charlie reminded him of being young and free and beautiful. She insisted he continued to be beautiful – it was her job, though it was true. His face was angular, but not pointy, and his smiles often appeared genuine. Whenever something was amiss, his expressions would give it away. He was open, and would go completely out of control if pressed to.  
  
Talkative, he claimed that it was the difference between him and Miles. What Miles would not allow himself to feel, he would take for himself. Feel it for him.   
  


* * *

  
  
Days passed where hundreds of deaths were recorded, and she was there for all of them.   
  
“Charlie. Charlene.”  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
“Family is important,” Monroe whispered. His gaze was not near to hers, hardly seeming like he was talking to anyone but himself.   
  
She swallowed. “It is.”  
  
“The Republic is my family, you know. Miles is. We created this, all of it, together, as brothers. It’s all I have left. And other people’s families are dying for it.”   
  
His fist met the oak headboard behind him. The room shook with it, and the sound resembled a bomb.   
  


* * *

  
  
She never usually knocked on his door; he had given her instructions to enter whenever she wanted. They had come to expect each other at certain times of day, mostly towards dusk when training had been completed and supper was being cleaned up in the hall. However, this evening was unusual. Charlie had decided something.   
  
“Excuse me, sir,” a guard called, a newbie, from outside Monroe’s room, “Miss Matheson would like to see you.”   
  
There was a groan through the plaster – never the one to hide his emotions. “Tell Rachel that I’m busy, I don’t have time for this. Get her to Miles if it is something desperate.”   
  
The guard exchanged a glance with Charlie, who mouthed her name for him to repeat. He must have had a death wish, she reasoned, because the more esteemed watches would never go against the wishes of the President.   
  
“This isn’t Rachel. This is a Charlotte Matheson – Charlie.”  
  


* * *

  
  
They stared at each other, feet apart, in silence for most of an hour. Monroe had the door locked and the soldiers released to their barracks. A cart of alcohol separated them, created the distance between their thighs, accounting for the only noise – clanking shot glasses between sips. Charlie sighed into her cup, then spoke up, “I think family is important, too. Like you said the other day. And mine is here, my mom is here, isn’t she?”   
  
“Charlie.” His tone wavered. “Kid, this isn’t something you should get yourself into. God…I can’t, can’t believe that. You – and I. Miles will kill me if he finds out who you are, you know that right? And Rachel, it’ll be worse with her.”  
  
“It’s okay,” she encouraged, leaning slightly forward. “I won’t tell anyone what happened between us. I just want to see my mom, please.”  
  
He staggered back again, hand to cheek. “Miles already knows. He knows which girls…oh, god. I am sorry, Charlie, but I can’t.”  
  
“You don’t even have to tell her that I’m her daughter. Just assign me as her aide or something. Please, sir. I’ve lost everyone else. That’s why I came here, to see my uncle. I had no idea that my mom was alive, and I want to be able to see her at least once. I will be good, I promise.”   
  
“Charlie, stop,” Monroe commanded, and she remembered who she was speaking to once again. His voice ached with the words, on the verge of a yell. She saw the tension in his arms, veins pulsing. For all the weeks, months now, that she had spent inside the militia, she had never seen Monroe attempt to compose himself – prevent himself from being angry, even killing someone.   
  
With shaking hands, he pointed to the door, and exclaimed, “Just go, Charlie. Now. Leave before I hurt you.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The second Militia-encrusted envelope that Charlie received relieved her of her duties as a Monroe girl. She had been stationed to the west wing of the house – where, presumably, Rachel stayed.   
  
Upon hearing the news, Julia seemed suspicious; after all, their conversation about that quarter of their building was still fresh in her mind. “Charlie,” she hummed, palms up so they could hold hands for a moment, hesitant to separate, “I want you to know that General Matheson is not like Monroe. You have gotten to be familiar with him, and you may even be fond of him. Emotions and all. General Matheson is all business, and cannot be reckoned with. He also isn’t, well, interested in girls of your age. As I mentioned before, he is close to a woman around there. I’m sure you’ll meet her. Just please be careful.”  
  
Eyes locked, Charlie assured her that nothing would go wrong. “I can’t get over my crush on Monroe that fast,” she joshed. A normal girl, without connections, focus on boys and her crossbow.   
  
“I am thankful that you girls don’t speak of my husband that way,” Julia laughed.   
  
They hugged, before parting, and Charlie wondered if her mother was anything like Julia. What she remembered of her mom was that she was kind-hearted, but not always easy to please; if someone wanted to impress her, it required much effort. This came from her intelligence, how she surrounded herself in only the best of company. Even after she left, Ben kept up appearances, and for such a small town, there was a disproportionate amount of scientists and techies. No one spoke of their careers prior to the Blackout, because they were mostly useless without power, despite how smart a person was.  
  
Whether or not her mother would actually like her became Charlie’s new biggest problem. She had not graduated from an expensive university, because none existed anymore. She couldn’t plug numbers into a computer and create programs through a few keystrokes. She did not have very many friends, including daft ones; Danny was the heart of the past ten years. Among her achievements was an ability to hunt, shoot to kill, and adapt like a chameleon to most surroundings. But the mother she could remember did not seem like the type to appreciate those things. The only thing worse Charlie could imagine herself being is a poet or history teacher or philosopher or something – anything beyond the realm of science. Having good aim in target practice had to be worth more than those.   
  
Her bed was comfortable, to Charlie’s satisfaction, but the room she was sent to live in was nowhere near as nice as where she stayed with Monroe.   
  
Somehow, it reminded her of home. Remnants of pink stained the walls of her childhood bedroom, posters of popular culture from 2012 and prior to be found in the closet. Wallpaper was in the new room, the opposite side of the estate from Monroe, but it tended to peel, and the floorboards were scuffed from military boots and wear. She liked it, although it existed completely imperfectly.  
  
A maid brought dinner on a tray, along with a note that stated her duties for the next day. She was to guard around the south-most hall, a barrier between only two rooms. It seemed fairly easy. Charlie ate her meal with excitement, including a full mug of coffee, then whiskey that Monroe sent up as a parting gift, though they still had not spoken since the encounter in his room. The gesture was nice, but it did not aide her nerves; she stayed up nearly all night, rehearsing what she would say if she came across Rachel Matheson. Probably nothing, she decided, logically. It just couldn’t hurt to come up with ideas anyway.   
  


* * *

  
  
“And you are?”   
  
The woman, blonde hair seeming stuck in its waves, asked with a stiff smile. She had already introduced herself – Miles’ palm on her lower back all the while, Charlie noticed. Whenever anyone spoke, their words penetrated the air. Rachel’s room had chapel height ceilings, and was unlike the dungeon her daughter imagined. In addition, she looked different; her hair lighter in shade, perhaps from time spent in the sun, and flesh tight around her cheeks. Her demeanor seemed forced – more like Monroe around strangers, the severity, than what Charlie had seen of Miles so far.   
  
“I’m Charlene. I’m very happy to be helping you, Rachel,” she said, softly, and they exchanged a loose handshake.   
  
From the corner of her eye, Charlie noticed General Matheson make a face, almost mocking her. “Don’t be so formal,” he decreed, then peered down at Rachel. “You can call her Charlie. That’s what everyone else does.”  
  
Rachel coughed somewhat, attempting to keep it under her breath. Her gaze snapped from Miles to Charlie. “Charlie?”  
  
“Yes, you can call me that.”  
  
They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and Charlie was sure they could hear her teeth gritting from trying so hard to retain a friendly grin. Eventually, her and Rachel nodded in silent agreement. Charlie was to begin her work – full-time aide to Rachel Matheson.  
  


* * *

  
  
Rachel was not sociable, but she was efficient. It was obvious to Charlie that no one was needed to help her, and Monroe had hardly convinced her that it would be necessary or even kind of beneficial to have an aide around. With Julia, Charlie could talk until nightfall came; they would chat some more until her husband tore them apart. The clear difference between Julia and Rachel was not their intelligence – just how they went about achieving what they want. While Julia could convince anyone of anyone through words, Charlie’s mother seemed to do the opposite, occupied constantly with action after action. She learned that she had a very intense one-track mind. Unfortunately, because she was not open to conversation, everything else stayed indistinct.  
  
Days went by where they would talk absolutely minimally, if at all, even when Charlie was doing some type of favor for her mother. Many times, Rachel would leave a list of things she would like done on a table, and Charlie would do each of them – deliver her food, clean her clothes, write up reports from the outside world, etc. – without question.  
  
They hardly saw each other; Charlie became closer to Miles than to Rachel, mostly because he hung around that wing nearly all of the time. Several times, she caught them in an embrace, which Miles was eager to break from if he feared someone was nearby. And every time Charlie saw it, she felt her blood run cold.  
  
She missed her mother for years, and assumed the worst when she had not returned like she promised she would. Upon learning she was alive, she anticipated her unhappiness, not engaging in regular contact with Miles. Not meeting the mouth of her husband’s brother, not wanting to help the militia. She had left her family for this – pendants, science, an affair, betrayal. The most emotion she had shown towards Charlie since she showed up was the first day, when she grew wide-eyed at her name. Charlie hurt more, knowing that she recognized it, but never addressed it.   
  
It was a season later, oranges and reds and browns scattered across the Republic, when Charlie could not handle it anymore. She was bored, running mundane errands throughout the day; she missed her crossbow, missed taking care of her family’s needs, and not the demands of a woman who had not done anything for her in years. Mostly, she was angry at Rachel’s coldness, Miles’ fading in and out of the hallway, and how they trusted her with brief knowledge of their rendezvous.   
  
“Rachel,” she said, sharply, after returning to her quarters from picking up lunch.   
  
Rachel peered across her shoulder from her position at a desk where she was scribbling down notes, complicated formulas. She did not seem happy with Charlie’s tone. “What?”   
  
Leaves poking from her hair, darkened by the autumn and knots tied together like a birds nest, Charlie bit on her bottom lip. Her hands shook under the plate she held. The cup of water splashed slightly onto the food; it began to look like a sad puddle of mush. But she cleared her throat, and she knew what she had to say. The words were on the tip of her tongue, she had to release them before her teeth drew blood.  
  
“I’m your daughter.”  
  
They sighed together – one a shaky breath of relief, the other somewhat annoyed. “I thought so,” Rachel agreed, faced away from Charlie again. “You have the same blue eyes. And you have the same mode of speech, talking like you are in charge of taking care of everyone.”  
  
“Because I have been.” She set the tray down, and held her hands to her hips to prevent their quivering from making her seem less strong. “I have been Danny’s mother ever since you left. Why do you think I’m here? For fun? The militia killed him and dad. I only went with them to find Uncle Miles, and you’re here, you’re with him. Did dad know?”  
  
“Ben was a good man,” Rachel murmured. Her lips formed a straight line Charlie could just make out from their opposite-facing angles.   
  
“And he’s dead, like you were supposed to be.”  
  
She agreed, again. “Yes.”  
  
“And now I don’t have any family at all,” Charlie spat, but she had warm tears dripping down her cheeks, and could only stare at her feet digging into the floor. She did not sound nearly as venomous as she wanted – just dejected. Alone. The word had not passed through her head in a very long time, not since her father and brother died, and now she realized it was the best descriptor for her. Alone – an orphan. Worst, not a big sister anymore. She had to sacrifice her relationship with Monroe, who was not a friend, but at least kept her company, to be around her mother, and was lonelier than ever.  
  
They sledged in the silence for a few minutes. Then, Rachel called her daughter over to her desk, and put her palms atop the smaller’s trembling pair. “This,” she said, calmly, referring to a series of diagrams in her journal, “is nanotechnology. It can explain why the power went out.”  
  
Charlie narrowed her eyes, not following.   
  
“Just give me a chance, and I will teach you everything I know,” Rachel assured her.   
  


* * *

  
  
The house was put on severe lockdown for a week, shortly after Charlie revealed herself to Rachel. There was talk of disloyalty – Monroe betraying Miles. Their fights became audible as time went on. Her mother did not mention it to her, nor did she ask what it was about, but she had a pretty big idea. General Matheson, Uncle Miles, had not been back in days. Rachel seemed to be taking it well, having indulged Charlie in her knowledge of the Blackout and science, too busy to concern herself with what others called a ‘lover spat’ between the President and General. It concerned Charlie, however, aware of their extensive history as best friends. Monroe had made that much clear.   
  
Wordlessly, she ventured to his room, and clanked the M-shaped handle on his door. The guards were pretty familiar with her, and did not raise their rifles as they might for another visitor. One did mention that President Monroe was likely too busy to answer, though. He had a rough week.   
  
She waited for half a minute or so, before turning to walk away. He had implied that they would not speak again, even formally, much less on the level they used to. He was still the president, and she was still a mere conscript, despite her lineage. The door opened, to her surprise, an unenthused voice mumbling, “Charlie. Wait.” It wasn’t Monroe’s.  
  
She spun around on one foot. Miles, of course. She went to scurry away again, guiltily, not ready to face him yet.  
  
“Hey, kid,” he called, “c’mon. We can talk.”  
  
The guards looked antsy, exchanging glances, bringing up their guns. Charlie decided it would be best if she just listened. She remembered having to clean up the blood of someone who did not listen.   
  
Monroe was at his table; he held his fingers to his temples, and tapped his foot on the ground, clearly anxious. As soon as the door swung shut behind him, he said, “Charlie,” very softly. Miles stood across from him, the three almost forming a triangle, and rolled his eyes. Had they been at home, Charlie would have laughed about how sassy the General could be – just like her mother. Here, it seemed too dangerous. Too real to think of fondly.  
  
“You don’t need to be mad at him,” she spoke up, tilting her head towards Monroe. “I left him with no choice but to…”  
  
Miles cut her off. “Don’t worry about him. I have been pissed off at him plenty of times in my life, this time won’t change anything. It’s just Rachel. Your mom. She is under a lot of pressure right now, and you and Bass went behind my back. Couldn’t it wait?”   
  
“No,” she answered confidently.  
  
Before he could snap at her, Monroe added, “Ben and Danny were killed, Miles, by our men.”   
  
“What?” He turned to Charlie, who nodded. Miles cursed under his breath. “Dammit. Your mother didn’t tell me that.”  
  
“Yeah, well, she isn’t the best at talking.”  
  
“Danny was your brother, right?” Miles asked, to Charlie’s dismay. It occurred to her that Rachel never spoke about her, or her brother, or even her father  – Miles’ brother. The militia liked to erase families; she better understood Monroe, who would be alone at the top without Miles. And Miles, who kept his brother’s wife around as a means to run away from family, but also because he could not be alone either.   
  
“Yeah,” she said, dryly, sucking the inside of her cheeks to keep from showing emotion. “Listen, my mom said that I can help her with whatever you are planning to do. Get the electricity back on, or whatever. And I can help. I won’t cause any problems.”  
  
Off to the side, Monroe sighed. He had heard that before.  
  
Apparently, Miles hadn’t, and cursed under his breath again. “Rachel told you that, too? Jesus. She never tells me anything. Okay. Kid, you can make yourself useful. Bass said that you are good in the field, and if Rachel wants you around, then sure. We can’t, uh. Really afford to have her not be happy.”   
  


* * *

  
  
They disclosed the plan to Charlie. Apparently, in Colorado, there was a place her mother referred to as The Tower – capital T and everything. She had worked there before the Blackout, which was news to Charlie, and was familiar with the coordinates and its capabilities. By day, Rachel worked in a notebook, jotting down formulas and numbers and sketches of what they would do if they survived the trip there. A certain level of the building could revive life as they knew it fifteen years ago. It was idealistic, power being in the hands of one group and believing it would say that way without danger. But this was her family’s objective; Charlie made it hers, too.   
  


* * *

  
  
Charlie learned how to use a gun, Charlie left the Republic for the first time, Charlie walked quietly for hours despite her many questions. She was not going to make the trip any harder by hounding her only family with all of her concerns.   
  
They traveled like soldiers, only stopping to sleep once every couple of days. She and Monroe had the duty to find and prepare food. Miles was left with the task of protecting Rachel, who could never be pulled out from the pages in her journal. Charlie would eat with Monroe, because he knew her family better than she ever could. The stories he whispered to her over dead squirrel and dirty water made the trip easier. She would not die alone without knowledge of her mother or uncle, even her father; all of them had been close before the power went out. President Monroe knew everything she wished she did.   
  
The trip was hard, but she had a family again.   
  


* * *

  
  
Before Rachel hit the button, and the world flew into chaos again, Monroe tried to keep them calm. Charlie cried into the gun she held, Miles shot bullets into a glass wall, Rachel was as quiet and as one-minded as ever. Typing, thinking, lip quivering. She stared blankly at the screen as it changed, from line of text to line of text, image to image, map to nukes.   
  
“If we make it out alive,” Monroe said, his eyes on Charlie’s, “I think we’ll have to rename it the Matheson Militia.”


End file.
